


you don't really get why i'm so pissed

by jumbled_sentiment



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Adorable Connor, Communication, Drunken Shenanigans, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:09:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumbled_sentiment/pseuds/jumbled_sentiment
Summary: “Hey,” he whined, “I’d feed you if you were too drunk to pick up your pizza.”“You can pick up the pizza,” Oliver shook his head, “you’re just not trying to.”Connor beamed. “Look at us, bickering like an old married couple.”“If this is married life, I think I’m gonna have to call off the wedding."





	you don't really get why i'm so pissed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if this is worthy of a warning but this involves discussions of slut-shaming. If that's not something you'd like to read I suggest avoiding this one. Happy reading, people <3

“So, what was all that about earlier? With Michaela?” 

Connor groaned. It was a long-accepted reality of anybody who worked for Annalise Keating that, in doing so, they were effectively narrowing their lives to that, and only that. Three of the unlucky lot that still found themselves lost in that reality were Connor Walsh, Laurel Castillo and Michaela Pratt. Somehow, they each found time to squeeze in too little sleep, according to the bolts of blood in their iris’ that now seemed to be a permanent fixture; a full timetable, including the research, assignments and deadlines that came with each class; and a healthy dose of wondering whether today would be the day that they were all arrested for their many, many crimes. Still, it could be said that these all fell into the category of working for Annalise and therefore, did not widen their lives from that unappealing epicentre, even a little bit. For Connor Walsh and his fiancé, Oliver Hampton, the only thing that remained truly their own was yet another stress-inducing feat of planning a wedding with a budget of approximately four dollars. To describe their existence would require the invention of words; harrowing, nightmarish or anxiety-ridden simply did not do it justice.

After a particularly harsh day, Connor had decided that the only sensible solution to the grim actuality of both practising and evading the law, was alcohol. More specifically, consuming vast quantities of any available liquor in an attempt to escape their indescribable lives for just one night. Michaela had been on board almost instantly, her failed relationships and broken dreams offering plentiful sorrows in need of drowning. Laurel, of course, had no interest in their impromptu pity party. Since she’d entered the world of motherhood, she’d had significantly better things to do with her time than squander it. Surprisingly, Asher had responded to their summoning with, ‘Sorry, too busy,’ and a string of way too many sad emojis, while Oliver had promised to jump in the shower and head straight to them.

“Oh, nothing,” Connor huffed, sprawled out across their bed with one arm slung over his face in a pose more closely akin to that of a drama student than a law one. By the time Oliver had arrived, just in time to witness the end of the confrontation, Connor and Michaela had already been on their third round of the night. They’d all stayed for a couple more after that, nobody bothering to keep count, so Connor’s current state of inebriation really didn’t come as a surprise. It had been a monumentally appalling day, so Connor felt completely justified in his ill-advised response to it. Though, he did have one regret. That being, it was only Thursday, tomorrow’s responsibilities still beckoned.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Oliver tutted, “and budge up, will you? You’re lying like starfish,” he complained. Though, predictably, his request was ignored, leaving him with no choice but to poke and prod at his boyfriends’ torso without an ounce of mercy until the other relented. Connor groaned, again, before finally rolling himself out of Oliver’s side of the bed with notably less grace than usual.

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” Oliver said.

This time, a sigh emanated from the ball that Connor had rolled himself into, a theatrical flair that Oliver found equal parts endearing and tiresome. “Just some nameless douchebag hitting on Michaela,” he said, the syllables of his words almost elongated enough to describe his tone as a drawl, “dude didn’t like getting rejected.” With a yawn, he stretched out his limbs before propping himself up against the headboard, this time remaining on his own side of the bed. On the expansive spectrum of sobriety, he was closer to, “Did you just text your ex?” than he was to, ‘still slightly pissed from the night before’. Had it been the other way around, he may have been able to contain his glee at the sight of a full glass of water on his bedside cabinet, knowing perfectly well that he hadn’t been the one to put it there. Though, as it was, he couldn’t. Connor never failed to be in awe of his fiancé, how he never had to _try_ to be nice, how it always just seemed to _happen_. It was a trait that could be learned from, he knew.

Intoxicated though he was, Connor knew that Oliver was not yet finished with the topic at hand. Reaching for his glass, he said, “It was just the usual, ‘Oh, you don’t wanna fuck me? Well, you’re an ugly slut anyway,’ kinda thing,” he took a gulp before finishing, “you know the drill.”

“Not really,” Oliver cringed. “He called her that?”

Connor drained the glass, at least most of the water going where it was supposed to, before answering, “What, ugly?”

“No,” Oliver said, twisting sideways on the bed, “a slut.”

Connor frowned. “Yeah, of course?” There was a pause, then, “Really? You’ve never been called a slut to your face?”

“No?” Oliver said.

“Wow.”

“Have you?”

Connor’s mouth hung open. “Of _course_.”

He knew that his fiancé wasn’t sheltered; Oliver was a fully-grown man who had been hurt by the real world more times than he could count. Obviously, he knew that there was such a thing as a bad person or, sometimes, a good person having a bad day. Still, there were times, Connor knew, when Oliver forgot to really believe it. Most often, people will judge the world based off their own standards and Oliver’s standards were some of the highest that Connor had ever encountered. Generally, he was inclined to see the best in humanity. Then, add to that the fact that his number of sexual encounters was nowhere close to Connors’ own meant that his shock then was to be expected. With Connor’s number being what it was, there was truly nothing left that could shock him in terms of disrespect, dehumanisation and blatant disregard for others.

“By who?” Oliver asked.

“People I’ve slept with. People I haven’t slept with, strangers, parents– not mine, don’t worry,” he said, at Oliver’s horrified expression, “hell, even you’ve called me a slut before.”

“What?” Oliver said, eyes wide, “when?”

“Well, you were joking. I think.”

Oliver turned fully to face the other man. “When, Connor? When did I call you that?”

Connor sighed. “It was after we got back together, the first time. You were trying to make us get tested and I sa–"

“I remember. I said, ‘how many penises have you touched since we broke up’ and then… called you a slut.”

“Actually,” Connor laughed, “you said ‘how many _men_ has your penis touched since then’ but, close.”

“I also said that there was nothing wrong with that.”

“I know. My point still stands.”

Oliver nodded, slowly. “Did it bother you?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugged, “only because you’d never mentioned it before, so I didn’t think it bothered you, but then I thought maybe–"

“It doesn’t,” Oliver shook his head, “not at all.”

Connor’s past belonged to him, period. The only issue had been when he’d allowed it to creep up and embrace his present. Nobody’s promiscuity was any of Oliver’s business, but he would never accept infidelity. Whoever his fiancé had chosen to be with before was nothing to do with him, but he cared infinitely about who he chose to be with now.

“In fact,” Oliver leaned in close, voice lowered, “I like it when you act like a slut for me.”

Immediately, Connor’s face morphed into what could only be described as a gawp. It wasn’t that flirting was a rare occurrence from Oliver, he simply hadn’t been expecting _that_, in that moment. Partially because of the gin and the vodka and whatever else they’d ingested that night, and partially because of the pure silliness of the moment, they started to laugh. It wasn’t weak laughter, nothing that couldn’t be heard by every other occupant of the house, and they didn’t stop either, they saw no reason to. The night became one long joke that nobody but them could understand. To laugh at nothing is one of the only sensations that can make a person feel truly free. When nothing is funny, but everything is hilarious, even the saddest of people can scrape back a small piece of their innocence, just for a little while.

Both men were as unwilling to cook as they were desperate for food, the obvious solution to which was to order pizza. The wait was scantly short of torturous, gin always made Connor ravenous, but once the food arrived, it quickly became the centre of his focus. In that moment, nothing else was important to him – a mercy that Oliver had become eternally grateful for. To watch the man he loved torture himself over things he could not control had made Oliver treasure the times that Connor’s attention was captured by something other than his own perceived shortcomings. Once half of his pizza had been devoured, Connor slumped even further down the couch before calling out, “Oli, come feed me.”

“Fuck off, Connor. I’m not feeding you.”

“Hey,” he whined, “I’d feed you if you were too drunk to pick up your pizza.”

“You can pick up the pizza,” Oliver shook his head, “you’re just not trying to.”

Connor beamed. “Look at us, bickering like an old married couple.”

“If this is married life, I think I’m gonna have to call off the wedding."

“You would never.”

“Watch me.”

“You wouldn’t. You love me too much.”

“Just eat your damn pizza.”

“Yes, sir,” Connor winked.

With anybody else, there would have been a slight awareness that a certain amount of regret was going to be present in the morning but, with each other, that simply didn’t exist. They were in the company of the person that they trusted most in the world so, really, it couldn’t have mattered less.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is a lyric from Tech N9ne - Fragile.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is always appreciated - whatever you've got to say, I'm interested. 
> 
> xx


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